Promo for a restaurant in New York (early 1990s)
And at my (something – back – head?) I always hear death’s (wing-ed something or other) hanging near or buzzing near. I’m sure that all the literary stuff I once knew is fluttering around when I take pictures.
A rough paraphrase from a romantic poem that I’m sure someone can tell me who wrote it. I feel like it was Pope. But I’m not sure. I always remember that couplet more or less and I think it’s repeated in the poem several times.